Monster
by wildwordwomyn
Summary: John is given a dose of heroin laced with a hallucinogenic. Separating what's real from what's not becomes a problem, especially once Harold gets involved.


Title: Monster

Author: wildwordwomyn

Word Count: 1,643

Fandom/Pairing: Person of Interest fanfic starring John Reese/Harold Finch

Rating: R for angst, drug use, hallucinations, hand kink (sort of) and did I mention angst?

Author's Notes: I got this idea after reading "Escapism" by *astolat*. (By the way, if you haven't read it yet go to Archive Of Our Own and do so. I highly recommend it!) Anyway, things went downhill from there...

Disclaimers/Warnings: General series spoilers. And no, I do not own the show or the characters, much to my regret.

Summary: John is given a dose of heroin laced with a hallucinogenic. Separating what's real from what's not becomes a problem, especially once Harold gets involved.

Is it a dream?

It has to be. But after being dosed with a bad cut of heroin by a paranoid addict moonlighting as a dealer John can't say for certain. Physical pain, torture, that he knows how to deal with. Compartmentalizing comes easy to him. When drugs are involved, though, anything can happen and usually does.

Because Jessica was there in that hotel suite in Mexico. Golden skin laid out on white linen sheets. Both warm, inviting. Then she turned her face away. Wouldn't turn back. An omen maybe? Suddenly it was night and he and Finch were walking down the streets of New York City, Bear between them.

"Does it have to be beer, Mr. Reese?"

John remembers smiling, thinking, _That's my man_. Thinking he has spent more time with Finch than he ever did with her. It's wrong somehow until it isn't. He reaches over Bear's head, takes Finch's smaller, softer hand in his own and speaks.

"Anything you want, Harold." Once it's out there the older man freezes. He doesn't move or blink. He just watches, as if he's waiting. So John smiles again, bigger, gentler. Says, "I can be everything. If you let me." The hand squeezes encouragingly, prompting him to finish with, "I love you."

John's almost sure it's real. Only Jessica didn't look away in Mexico and he didn't even attempt to take Finch's hand in New York. By now it doesn't matter; dream, memory, a glimpse of the future. It's still nice.

"John? John, where are you?"

The hand he's holding is no longer holding his. He feels it disappearing, which means he's hallucinating. He looks into Finch's clear blue eyes, realizing he doesn't have his glasses on, that he doesn't need them since half his face is missing, and resigns himself to the nightmare rolling in.

"John? Talk to me?"

So he does. With a tongue as thick as molasses he still manages to say the words he's been keeping a secret for far too long. "I'm not her. Not feminine or soft or beautiful. Half the time the demons in my dreams wear her face. And I still find myself unable to sleep through a whole night without waking up to screams."

One breath. Two. Silence.

"I can't... Harold, no one becomes a monster unless they have that capacity already inside them." John blinks, feeling burning in his gut, blood-soaked clothing. "Swimming, Harold. Literally. In all the blood I've spilled. If this is the end I'd rather it end with you."

"It's not the end, John. I'm coming. Just hang on a little longer."

Only John isn't positive Finch is coming. If any of this is real. If the voices he hears, Finch's, his own, exist. The man with half a face moves nearer, blocking everything else in his field of vision. He reaches out with a hand that does not belong to him, touching John's cheekbone with cool fingertips. It takes a second for John to recognize the hand as his own. The question of why Finch has it, why it fits like a well-worn glove, trips through is mind while the fingertips slide down to trace his lips.

"Stay with me, John." Cajoling, seductive, entirely un-Harold-like.

He wants to, needs to. "...Not like this," John whispers. "Don't be like this." It's a plea, and a regret. If he asks again John will give in.

When he whimpers quietly this Harold rewards him by pushing his fingers into his mouth to pet his tongue. John shivers uncontrollably. The sensation is extraordinarily erotic and eerily disturbing at the same time. Instead of stopping it John lets his eyelids slide shut, opening his mouth wider. The tears that fall go unnoticed.

Hours, days, later John wakes up in his bed, wearing his own pajama bottoms and a plain white tee shirt. He's covered by a flat gray flat sheet. Running a mental diagnostic he checks his body over. A little groggy, more than a little achy, but still in one piece except for an itchy numbness in his right hand. As he raises it up to inspect it Finch limps into the room carrying a tray holding antibiotic ointment, fresh gauze and medical tape.

"You were trying to eat your hand, Mr. Reese," Finch scolds sternly.

When he turns to face the younger man John is relieved. Not only does he have both sides of his face but his glasses are properly perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks complete. John sighs inwardly, acknowledging to himself that he'd been worried. Glancing at his hand he startles. The entire hand is wrapped mitten-style in red-streaked gauze.

"How far did I get?" he asks, fighting not to show his alarm.

"The tips will need some time to heal. The back is missing a strip of skin. No infection though." Finch's eyes wander restlessly, unable or unwilling to seek out his gaze. There's more the genius is reluctant to share. Then, "... The connection didn't get interrupted..."

John sighs again. "What did you hear?"

Finch, needing a task to focus on, lays the tray down on the bed next to John's right hip. Sitting down slowly to accommodate for his injuries he takes the bandaged hand in his own, taking his time unwrapping the used gauze. John watches his friend instead of cataloging the damage. His instincts tell him what's been done to his partner is far more important.

"You were hallucinating. Saying things I..." Finch breathes in sharply. It occurs to him that he's flustered. More, he's allowing John to see this side of him. This is Finch showing concern. For him. "You were crying and choking yourself but you wouldn't stop."

"Couldn't," John amends softly while another part of his brain shifts into whatever gear Finch rides. "PCP. Acid maybe. That's why the heroin was bad...," he trails off.

Finch has always had a steady touch. Patching John up has become a smooth, efficient art. It's just that right now the man isn't patching up anything. He's holding John's hand, staring at the wounds, still. Something strange hangs in the air. John swears it's desperation. Anticipation.

_Finally_, he thinks, and tightens his grip until the pain forces him to relax. "Turns out I'm not the only one who's good at saving people." He winks.

"I really wish you would cease needing to be saved, Mr. Reese."

"And miss the chance to be nursed back to health by my favorite nightingale?" Finch's expression darkens helplessly. "I'll try harder, Finch. Really."

Finch bends his head as low as possible, bringing his hand higher in the process. The kiss is expected. Where he plants it, however, is a complete surprise. Heat pools in the center of his palm before spreading upward. Caught off-guard by his growing blush John grins shyly, happily, and picks up the new roll of gauze.

"We should probably get this covered back up," John says after clearing his throat, his voice slightly hoarse, flirtatious.

"Of course."

Finch is more detached when he rubs the ointment over John's fingertips and the skinless stripe on the back of his hand. He doesn't linger, doesn't caress. He's methodical. And yet John finds himself breathing heavier, turned on in a way he hasn't been since Jessica.

"Harold," he calls softly. As the older man looks up John's grin falls into a more intimate shape. "You can kiss me. If you want."

Finch's eyes widen. Recovering quickly, he asks," What if I do want, Mr. Reese?"

Hearing the words _want_ and _Reese_ in the same sentence from the man makes John shudder. "Anything," he replies.

It's been so long since he's given mind, body and soul to another. So long since he's wanted to. Finch is only inches away. John wonders if Jessica knows, if she approves... Yet, in the end it's all about this moment. John reaches up with his good hand to caress Finch's jaw, pleading silently.

Finch obliges by closing his eyes and submitting to the touch. "There are things you don't know, John. Things I can never tell you," he murmurs.

"I know enough. Besides, I used to work for the government. I've grown accustomed to living with a certain degree of mystery."

"My knowledge can get you killed," Finch answers, lifting his eyelids as well as the rest of his mask.

"Oh, Harold," John says tenderly, carefully pulling Finch toward him. "I'm already dead, so stop talking and kiss me."

When Harold's body moves as far as it's capable of John meets him, greeting him eagerly, and the press of mouth to mouth is a revelation. John feels like he's been here before, like he's come home. He parts his lips to invite Finch in further, groaning when the other man excepts. He tastes of tea leaves, apples, fear, life. It's a heady concoction, one John drowns in until the uncomfortable position causes Finch to grunt.

Because suffering is easier to understand, to manipulate, than pleasure John puts both hands on Harold's shoulders to help him sit up straight. He ignores the flash fire that radiates through his digits, inhaling deeply as it fades. Sitting himself he moves the medical tray to a bed-side table and scoots closer to kiss him again. The deceptively simple act is freeing, John realizes. Finch sees him, all of him, yet makes the choice over and over to stay.

"I'd give you the world if I could," John tells him during a much-needed break. He rests his forehead against the genius's gratefully.

Finch removes his glasses and places them next to the tray. He cups John's face, capturing his attention. "You do, John. Every day."

Then Finch kisses him some more to prove it.

The End


End file.
